


before it's too late

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [148]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, this is so soft i CAN'T
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: in light of the triple event coming to light, Newt and Hermann have a talk
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [148]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	before it's too late

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Would you be willing to do something with this scrap here? He presses his forehead against Newt’s, just breathing him in. It should be weird, but it’s not, and Newt’s looking up at him like he wants Hermann to kiss him and so he does, leans in, and Newt meets him halfway. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Hermann says, when he pulls away. Doesn’t miss the disappointment that flashes across Newt’s features before he breaks into a timid smile. “Tomorrow.”"

Their first meeting is _awkward_.

That’s the only word for it; really; they’re twenty-seven and both anxious for this, so anxious, understandable, really, if Hermann is as important to Newton as Newton is to him. (He suspects he is.)

They part on not _horrible_ terms, but not good ones, really, either; could have been _worse,_ Hermann supposes, but he wishes it had been better. Newton was—well, not his _only_ friend, but certainly his _closest_ one.

They meet again in Hong Kong; three years later—short in the grand scheme of things, but Hermann has felt every second of it heavily; _achingly_.

 _I missed you_ , he almost says; but the words dry up in his throat. They mightn’t _hate_ each other (Hermann certainly doesn’t hate _him_ ) but there’s an awkwardness, now; in the way Newton holds himself when he greet him, and there’s an awkwardness in _Hermann_ , too; he’s not sure how to act.

“We’ll be sharing a lab,” he says, hoping his voice comes out more steadily than the words feel in his mind. “I, ah, I hope you don’t mind. I’m a very quiet lab partner, don’t worry,” he adds; in an attempt to— _what?_ , and then winces when it, predictably, falls flat.

Newton just gives a quiet hum. “I’m not,” he says; matter-of-factly. 

The discomfort must show on Hermann’s face; Newton scoffs. “Sorry I can’t be _perfect_ ,” he says, lips twisting into a sneering smile, “then again, you always expected too much from me.”

 _That’s no true_ , is Hermann’s instinctive reply; but it _is,_ in a way, so he keeps his mouth _shut_ and instead raises his chin; bites his cheek and says, “Follow me, Doctor Geiszler,” and hopes to god that he doesn’t sound a little bit _heartbroken_.

“Stick to your side of the lab, and I’ll stick to mine,” Hermann says, once they get there. “I don’t want any of your kaiju entrails distracting me.”

In truth, kaiju entrails aren’t the _distraction_ here, but Hermann feels they’re the more justified explanation; the more _reasonable_ and less _embarrassing_ one, at least.

“You should _thank_ my kaiju entrails for making things _interesting_ around here,” Newton shoots back. “At least I can actually _do_ something besides play with _chalk—_ ”

And that, it turns out, sets a precedence; Hermann says something to Newton, Newton retorts, they yell at each other in increasingly raised voices, and Hermann thinks, perhaps, _this_ is what they were destined for, after all.

Well; at least it _helps_ ; Hermann is far more productive when he has someone to poke holes in his theories, even if that person is Newton _bloody_ Geiszler, of the too many doctorates and too few manners, whom Hermann’s mind cannot seem to make a decision to _admire_ or _dislike_ and settles on some odd middle ground.

So they fight, and they force each other to take breaks because they care about each other more than either of them is willing to admit—Hermann knows this to be true; the same expression he finds himself making is mirrored on Newton’s face, sometimes, in a flash, before it disappears, and he _knows_ he’s not making it up—, and time is running out, of _course_ it is, they’re fighting a losing battle against _aliens_ , for God’s sake.

Sometimes, though—

Sometimes, when there’s a break, they take it together; sitting, quietly together; the line dividing the laboratory ignored for a few hours, and they don’t _talk_ but Hermann knows that Newt—God help him, he’s _Newt_ , now, in Hermann’s mind—is thinking about the fact that so very many have died and so very many _will_ and there’s nothing he can do about it, and his shoulders are slumped and he curls in on himself, a bit, and Hermann knows _this_ because he feels it too and knows Newton can tell he does. 

They never _talk_ during these times; something about the situation seems to forbid it, almost; but Hermann allows himself this: to reach a hand out and settle it on Newton’s shoulder or thing or arm, to let the action come to its natural conclusion rather than hiding it away in that little box in his mind where all those other things about Newt live, stuffed full to bursting in a way that makes his heart ache.

And Newton, too, will do the same; his hand warm through Hermann’s clothing, the action more comforting than he really is willing to admit; but will allow himself to feel, as they sit here, together.

It’s the triple-event that does it, in the end; pushes him to it finally.

Hermann’s migrated to the sofa an hour after he pens the last number and it dawns on him; that this isn’t going to _stop_. 

The fabric of it is soft against the back of his neck; he started off half-curled into one corner of it, but within fifteen minutes, finds he doesn’t have the energy to keep his spine so straight; winds up with his head tipped back, staring at the ceiling; his legs stretched awkwardly out.

Newton comes over a few minutes later, and Hermann tilts his head to look at him; sits on the other end of the sofa, giving him a soft, tentative glance; uncertainty. “Hey,” he says; quiet.

“Newton,” Hermann says; and watches him shift closer; doesn’t say anything about it, just readjusts himself so that Newton can fit against his side. The _click, click, click_ of the clock on the wall is suddenly loud. “We’ve wasted so much time,” he says, unthinkingly.

Newt hums at him. “Yeah,” he says, “you’re…you’re right about that.”

“All the things we never said,” Hermann murmurs; the _we_ slipping out with more weight than he’d meant it to; but they both know it’s _true_. Well; here he is, being bold—will Newton point it out? Or will he, too, take the leap they both know they’ve been on the verge of for years?

Newton swallows; the motion easily trackable this close. “I don’t want to…I don’t want us to die without talking about it,” he says; and this is the first true admission of it; of _this_ , by either of them, and it makes Hermann’s exhausted mind quicken. “Is this how we’re going to talk about it?” he asks; aiming for dry but probably missing.

The other laughs; the sound vibrating, deeply enough that Hermann can feel it, pressed against him. “Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I think so. I think that might be a good idea.”

He’s right; of course he is; if they don’t, they’ll just avoid it forever; but now, like this, neither of them seem to be about to try and do so, so that’s—that’s better than it might ever be, really.

Hermann considers it; weights the options; decides. “You’re right,” he says, finally. “I…we should.”

“Care to share with the class, Hermann?” Newt asks—the question teasing, but the smile tugging at his lips isn’t one of mocking, and Hermann feels—well, _comfortable_ with it, for the moment.

“I’ve never hated you,” he admits; and then: “I think I might even love you.”

It must not be what Newton’s expecting, because he draws a sharp breath; stilling against Hermann. “You…” he pauses. “I didn’t realise…I thought you just had a _crush_ on me.”

Hermann scowls. “That’s not _incorrect_ ,” he replies.

“Thank god,” Newt laughs; a bit wetly, and they look at each other. “I really really like you and maybe love you too,” Newton says; and the words are said almost reverently.

“Can I call you tomorrow?” Hermann blurts; suddenly, and then: “to, ah. Tell you where to meet, I mean. Er. That is, I’d—I’d like to take you out, for, erm, a date. If you’d be amenable.”

By the end of it, his voice is high; nearly painfully so, but Newton’s smile is radiant, and he sits up a bit more; tilts his head to look at Hermann properly. “I’d like that,” he says; solemnly, and, out of—God, sheer _relief_ , perhaps, Hermann leans to embrace him.

For a second, Newt seems surprised, but once he realises what’s happening, he hugs Hermann back; presses his cheek to his and says, “God, Hermann, I—” He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words.

Instinctively, Hermann pulls away; takes a look at Newton’s face, the _ache_ so painfully clear in his gaze, one that Hermann knows is mirrored in his own, and finds he’s not quite sure what to do; but he does it anyway.

He presses his forehead against Newt’s, just breathing him in. It should be weird, but it’s not, and Newt’s looking up at him like he wants Hermann to kiss him and so he does, leans in, and Newt meets him halfway. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Hermann says, when he pulls away; doesn’t miss the disappointment that flashes across Newt’s features before he breaks into a timid smile. 

“Tomorrow,” Newt says, and reaches out to take Hermann’s hand.

Hermann, smiling, twines their fingers together. “Tomorrow,” he repeats.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
